Part II: Fatehpur Sikri

Note: this is part 2 of a 4 part post that begins with Introduction to Agra

Less than half an hour later, we reached Fatehpur Sikri. I still don’t know exactly what it is, other than it had something to do with Akbar, one of the Mughal rulers. I believe, though I’m not certain, that it was the location of the capital during Akbar’s time, but I also know that the belief could very easily be wrong.

How could I go to Fatehpur Sikri and leave without knowing exactly what it is, you ask? Weren’t there signs? Didn’t you hire a tour guide? There were, and we did.

Let me explain something quickly – tourism is practically a sport in Agra, and if it were, tour guides would be the competitors. As we originally made our way into the city, we CONTINUALLY dodged numerous Indian men that ran out in front of the car, almost as though they were daring us to hit them. Finally, on one narrow stretch of the road, one of the men managed to get in a position where there was nothing else to do but hit him. Or stop. So of course, we did the reasonable thing and put on the brakes.

He came over to the window and asked in Hindi if we needed a tour guide. We said we were fine. He began to argue, and showed his certificate as a licensed guide. Thankfully, we would have none of it.

Finally he left, and we managed to dodge the rest of the guides until we got to Fatehpur Sikri. Were that it were enough just to reach the parking lot. However, our next step was to catch a rickshaw to the historic site itself. We go to the road and all of a sudden I am surrounded by people. “You need guide,” one says in broken English, and between him and the others who are speaking in Hindi, I have no option but to stick my hands tightly in my pockets and try not to lose my friends.

In the shuffle of the crowding tour guides, I feel a pull on my arm. “Get in, quick,” Sravanthi says, and the rickshaw starts to move.

I duck in with a lack of flair and am confronted with an appalling sight. Rickshaws are meant to seat at most three people and a driver – three in the back, one in the front. We had successfully maintained the three in the back rule, thankfully, but in the front, I saw Amit and Venkash, two of my Indian friends, on my left, and on my right, a horde of tour guides clawing to get in.

The auto takes off, leaving a short young man in a lavender shirt. My friends talk to him in Hindi for a minute, and arrange a price for him to be our guide. Note that, as yet, he has not spoken a word of English.

The reason becomes apparent soon after we exit the rickshaw. Now to be perfectly fair to the man, he does know the language. He seems to know the language quite well, in fact. But his North Indian accent is thicker than the gravy in a pot of Cream Chicken, and I can understand maybe one out of every 100 words.

This was an unfortunate fact – more unfortunate was the fact that I was too stubborn to admit that I didn’t understand him. So I nodded, tried to act interested, and refrained from reading ANYTHING that might make it look as though I needed visual aids.

We reached the gates of Fatehpur (apparently a Mosque – which makes sense because the Mughals were Muslim) and took off our shoes. Our tour guide said…something…and we walked inside. The one thing I had gotten out of the tour so far was that the gate on our left was the tallest gate in Asia. No idea what that means, why it’s important, or its significance in Muslim culture. What I did see, however, were ancient, two hundred year old graves dotting the floor of the mosque, with names written in ancient and flowery Urdu.

Our tour guide immediately leads us to the only back alley in the entire mosque. I catch him saying random words… “Marble,” “cloth,” and “charity” are among them, and so I automatically assume he means to tell me that the men hiding in this back alley hawking bandannas are actually trying to give me something to place inside the marble structure out front. Now, why a charity would have to hide in a back alley, selling cloth to tourists and giving the proceeds to someone other than the well dressed men selling them, is beyond me, but what really confused me was when one of these charitable men answered a cell phone, asked who it was, then handed it to my guide, who engaged in a quite jovial conversation for a minute or two before hanging up. Anyway, my group of friends must have been the only ones who found it suspicious, because according to the tour guide (who repeated the phrase until he was sure I understood) “EVERYBODY does it.”

Well it must have been everybody minus five, because we went into the marble temple (which one friend told me was in fact Hindu) without being at all charitable. After dodging some more requests for donations, we made our way out from the statuesque marble and began to further explore the mosque.

We went to the front of the mosque and our tour guide said something unintelligible about a row of arches we had just walked through. I peered knowingly down the stretch and oohed as though it all made sense. When I looked around, Megan had a baby in her arms.

Apparently, the child’s parents either thought her a goddess or wanted to one day convince their child it was white. I’m banking on the latter. Either way, they approached her, said “just one photo,” and all of a sudden, there she was with a baby in her arms while the family snapped pictures. I took one too, just for kicks. Apparently Megan contemplated just walking off with the baby like it was a gift. Mothers, please think twice before giving your baby to anybody from California.

On the far side from our entrance there were multiple artisans selling wares, which was where our tour guide took us next. I was hoping he had decided he wanted a trinket for himself, but he in fact had a far more devious plan in mind. As the others pulled away to take pictures or look at trinkets, our tour guide approached me, and spoke about twice as clearly as he had at any point so far.

“Sir, I [garbled English]. I am student. My girlfriend and I [garbled English] and it would be great if you could pay me in American dollars.”

Touched as I was by the story, I had no American dollars with me. I told him so and moved away hurriedly, hoping to lose him in the crowd. I walked through Volan gate, and everything paused for a second.

Volan gate is beautiful. You walk through it, and you are all of a sudden standing on top of the world. It’s like a redstone terrace overlooking the entire Indian countryide. Beautiful isn’t a description one could use to describe walking out that gate, nor could pictures do it justice. I could almost imagine myself, in a mosque somewhere deep in the Himalayas, looking out over the whole world.

Then the vendors descended. They were EVERYWHERE. Snow globes, handmade rattles, handiwork and crafts of all sorts. There were VEGETABLE vendors, for goodness sake. At VOLAN GATE.

I went out and looked quickly, shot a picture, and ran with my tail between my legs to get away from the mob. Back inside Fatehpur, I waited until we collected everybody, and then decided that the next step was to leave without seeing Sikri.

As we leave, someone brings up the camel rides that are available to go back down to the parking lot. Earlier that day I had brought up my ambition to ride a camel while I was here, and so we very quickly decided to make the camel ride our course of action.

The ride itself, disappointingly, was in the back behind the camel. But our guide, who at the very least gets points resilience, asked if I wanted to ride. Is that actually a question?!

Next thing I know, I’m up on the camel as it trots slowly down the road. A stream of people walk past, most looking up and either staring or laughing hysterically. I don’t care. I’m riding a camel. From the cart where the others were riding, I hear my tour guide shout, nearly as loud as he could, “HANDSOME AMERICAN MAN ON TOP OF THE CAMEL,” as though announcing my presence to the entire world. He was to do it two more times before I dismounted.

The camel itself was incredible. Its legs, sinewy and strong, spoke of its raw power. There was no saddle, but rather a harness, which turned out to be even easier to ride in. The ride was not bumpy, nor was it the slightest bit uncomfortable. In a sense, it wasn’t a true camel ride, but just to say “I did it,” this was enough. Next up is the elephant, which I’m hoping will be even more rewarding.

When we got to the parking lot, I knew exactly what would come next, and I hope you do as well. As everyone disembarked, our tour guide sidled up beside me and softly whispered “You can tip me. Whatever you like.” After the tour we had just gotten, I totally ignored him, and as I brushed past him to walk away his entreaties became slowly louder and louder, until finally I moved past any distance that could allow for remorse and he became silent.